The air smelled of burnt toast and old newspapers when it hit me—in families with more than one child, there’s always a favourite and a shadow. The golden one gets endless excuses, coddling, praise. The unwanted one? Blamed for every misfortune. That’s how it was in our house.
Mum adored my younger brother, Walter. Me? I was the accident. Once, in a fight, she spat, *”If not for you, I’d still be married to your father.”* Those words dug so deep, I still feel them years later. I never asked to be born. But to her, my existence was a mistake.
After the divorce, she dumped me on my father’s parents—Gran and Grandad. I was seven. Suddenly, I was in a stranger’s house, motherless. Gran and Grandad were kind, though. They became my real family. Meanwhile, Mum poured everything into Walter—her love, her money, her sanity. She bailed him out of scrapes, paid off his debts, even sold her big four-bed in Kensington to buy him a flat. I found out through the grapevine. Not a thought for me.
I moved to Manchester. Built a life—married, raised a daughter. Now we’ve a grandson, and our girl lives in the house Gran left us. Quiet. Steady. No debts. Mum and I barely spoke. Why would we? Strangers, really.
Then, the twist.
Mum broke her hip. The hospital said she needed surgery—private, of course. Guess who paid? Me. Yes, *me*. Because, somehow, she was still my mother. I didn’t want her to suffer.
But after the op, they said she’d need rehab. Someone to cook, clean, ferry her to appointments. And suddenly, Walter lobbed the responsibility at me. Calls turned to pressure: *”You owe her. You’re her daughter!”*
I said no.
Cue the meltdown. Both of them—Mum and Walter—lashed out. Dug up ancient grudges I’d supposedly caused. *”I gave you life!”* Mum wailed. I wanted to scream: *What life?* Love, warmth, safety—Walter got it all. Where was my share?
So I told her:
*”You made your choice. You bet everything on one child and tossed the other aside. Now it’s harvest time. Here’s your golden boy—strong, capable. Let him step up. I’m not that girl anymore, the one you could guilt-trip into obedience. I owe you nothing.”*
They called me heartless. Cruel. Ungrateful. But I felt nothing. No guilt. Just bitterness—for the family we never were.
Now Mum’s in a care home. Walter visits when it suits him. And me? I dream of Gran sometimes—the woman who wiped my tears, read me stories. *She* was my mother.
Let them say I’m holding a grudge. Fine. I’m no saint. But I won’t give myself away to people who threw me out like rubbish.
